


Almost Lover

by mormoriarty



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-01
Updated: 2012-05-01
Packaged: 2017-11-04 16:46:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,290
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/396011
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mormoriarty/pseuds/mormoriarty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A Sherlock Holmes and Irene Adler songfic, featuring lyrics from “Almost Lover” by A Fine Frenzy.</p><p>Sherlock finally accepts Irene's invitation for dinner. But what do you do when you have all the time in the world, and the whole world thinks you are dead?<br/></p>
            </blockquote>





	Almost Lover

**Author's Note:**

> Irene, besides for Mycroft and Molly, is the only one who knows Sherlock's alive. Set eight months after the Reichenbach Fall. Bolded lines indicate the song lyrics.
> 
> One of my first writing pieces for the BBC Sherlock fandom. I think Sherlock seems uncharacteristic in this, and so this could eventually be edited.

_I’m not dead. Let’s have dinner. –IA_

_I’m not hungry. –SH_

_  
_

_The world thinks that we’re dead. Let’s have dinner. –IA_

_Very well. -SH_

 

 _“Hello, darling,”_ Irene croons, curled up in a contemporary-styled white leather armchair, as one Sherlock Holmes enters through the doorway to a rather extravagant parlor. His unruly chestnut hair casts a soft, curly shadow over his high cheekbones, and _gods, they’re as sharp as ever_. He’s getting thinner and thinner every time she sees him.

“Good evening.” Sherlock’s lips curl up at the corners almost wistfully as his beautiful glasz eyes glance over at her, the way the stretchy twill and sheer satin cling to her curves, how the diaphanous, scalloped black lace looks against her milky skin, and how for once, her wavy hair isn’t up in its usual, intricately plaited updo. Gears turn in his brain so obviously that Irene can almost hear a soft whirring as information from his surroundings is processed and cataloged away. His pressed black suit appears starkly severe against all the white furniture and rich gold decor, while somehow, Irene’s Dolce & Gabbana dress doesn’t.  
“Are you fully dressed? Because whenever I come to visit, I can never tell.” Sherlock raises an eyebrow, coolly disinterested. One rosy lip is being tugged into his mouth, and she watches as he chews on it thoughtfully. A second passes, and then with a little shake of his head, “You’re doing this on purpose, aren’t you?” He blinks quickly, his dusky lashes fluttering and sweeping and brushing at those pale, chiseled cheekbones, making him look younger and much more vulnerable. He waits.  
“Of course. I do know how uncomfortable it makes you feel.” And this is true. Sherlock Holmes and Irene Adler. And what an odd pair they do make, both playing for their own team, and yet still able to intrigue the other. _What a strange world_.  
Sherlock pulls a patterned pillow from behind him and onto his lap as he sits opposite her, perched stiffly on the white couch. The action does not strike her as strange, but maybe it should.

“ _Is this all just a game to you?_ ” His voice drops about twenty decibels, and sounds so melancholy that a little piece of Irene’s heart would break, if she were that susceptible to human emotion. Those lovely cornflower blue eyes look a crystalline green now, like a frosted-over forest in the morning sunlight. **The sweetest sadness in your eyes.**  
The aforementioned eyes bore into her own, and he seems so desperate. Something cracks in the surface of his calm façade, and he swallows hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing dramatically, and turns away before she can answer. A pregnant pause, as she twirls a stray lock of hair around her left index finger. “I can’t do this much more.” Sherlock squeezes the words into the silence, but even he is almost shocked at the recognizable neediness in his voice.  
“Surely you can hold on longer,” Irene replies, twisting around so that one slender foot rests atop his trouser-clad thigh. The tip of her toe traces down the crease of the pressed seam in the fabric. He looks up, and his magic eyes have changed again, darkened into a mid-evening sky in the summer. “It’s only been eight months.”  
“ _Seven months too long_ ,” he adds, his voice breaking, and that deep baritone rings a pitch lower than it usually does. She moves her bare foot off his leg, but when Irene leans forward suddenly, he flinches back a little and then gives an apologetic smile. “Sorry.” She inclines her head as way of answer, tucks a errant espresso curl behind his ear, and rests a hand tenderly on his cheek. Her nimble fingers stroke the soft skin of his jawline, feel the slightly rough, stubbled remains of last night’s shave, and lightly trace that perfect, rosy Cupid’s bow. **Your fingertips across my skin.** Sherlock’s gaze follows those dexterous fingers slowly, and he stops breathing for a second as a sharp blood-red-manicured finger runs slowly down his philtrum. He trembles a bit, but instead, she takes her hand away and then holds it out expectantly. Sherlock clasps his long fingers around it and presses a chaste kiss to her skin, and she can feel warmth seeping through her. A bit of a thrill runs through her veins, unexpectedly and almost like it’s forbidden. A flutter is felt bubbling around in her chest, and she shivers a little as a soft laugh escapes her lips. Her own blue-grey tinted eyes darken, but with interest, with arousal, _with love_? Irene doesn’t know. She moves to sit next to him, so close that she can feel his body heat.

She whispers her next words next to his ear. “We’ve got all the time in the world. _They all think we’re dead, darling_.” Irene inhales a bit, the tip of her nose down by the hollow of his neck, taking in the soft, smoky scent that is _Sherlock_ ; blood orange and creamy vanilla bar soap, black coffee with two sugars and no cream, a bit of cinnamon and clove, and a hint of a citrus chemical cleaner that tells of long nights at Saint Bartholomews, all intermingling with clean sweat and that intense heat that’s practically _radiating_ off of him. She looks back up at him through her lashes, to see Sherlock peering back at her intensely.

Those eyes are smouldering now. A stormy shade of dark grey, with that hint of a promising yellow sun peeking out beneath those clouds. On impulse, she makes the first move, coming closer to him and nearly sitting in his lap. And she know he is about to get scared, he’s about to back out, he’s not all that sure about this. But she erases all his worries by pressing her soft lips to his, where they meld together perfectly. It’s tightly close-lipped at first, but Irene runs her tongue slowly against his bottom lip as if asking for permission. He gives acquiescence, silently tilting his head up to meet hers, and then it’s a hot tangle of tongues and a quickly-moving battle of dominance. Surprisingly, he wins, and she briefly wonders _the Virgin?_ until a no-longer-tentative tongue runs along the sensitive skin inside teasingly and she loses coherent thought. Her eyes have closed while his remain almost startlingly open, but they flutter open as she feels a ghost of teeth scrape her lips, and then to confirm, a small little nip that should not have felt this good to Irene. She groans, but that little bite on her soon-to-be swollen lips remind her that though he is no ordinary man, she is also no ordinary woman. The dominatrix must _always_ stay in control.

So she starts to move lower, settling on that unmarred neck of his. Irene sucks at Sherlock’s rather prominent Adam’s apple, and licks a stripe down to the hollow of his throat, hearing him hiss softly. The crux of his shoulder and neck receive a few slowly-blossoming love bites, and she smiles as he moans involuntarily. Irene nibbles down his carotid artery, and she kisses that spot that makes his knees go weak. All of a sudden, he shrugs her off to pull at his two-button Spencer Hart suit jacket and it lands unceremoniously thrown into a heap on the Oriental rug. But he jumps right back in, and she’s pulled to her feet, this time the recipient of these ministrations. The tip of a tongue traces the shell of Irene’s ear, and she shivers as hot breaths are blown on the quickly cooling trail, giving her strangely conflicting sensations. He pulls aside her hair as he turns her around, winding his fingers up in the brunette waves. Sherlock kisses a light pathway that goes down her right shoulder and curls around her back, before adeptly tugging the zipper of her satin dress down with his teeth. She looks down at him and watches his mystical eyes, gone from thundercloud grey colour to a misty light blue hue. Those eyes blaze and then she’s just standing there in her skimpy underthings and she has never felt better. She lives for these little moments, the ones where you get to prove people wrong. And she always does just that.

She wiggles her hips a bit, giving him a show, but then surprises him by pushing him back onto the couch, straddling his lap but this time clad only in delicate lace and flimsy little bits of silk. She knows how beautiful she is, but she know what Sherlock doesn’t. He’s the gorgeous one, _bloody gorgeous_. With those cheekbones, those long, elegant limbs, the soft, pale creamy skin, and that errant hair, how could he not be? _But he doesn’t realize at all, does he?_ The buttons are straining on his aubergine button-up shirt, and Irene undoes them all, going aggravatingly slow as to test his patience. The small, silver buttons pop open, their iridescence shining like his moonstone-like, grey-blue eyes, and she runs a finger down his bare chest, which is surprisingly covered in thin, wiry muscles though he doesn’t seem like one who works out much. Her hand circles his left pectoral and pinches a sensitive nipple, watching his face as he gasps. _He’s even got abs_ , she notes almost excitedly, practically giddy on this pheromone high. Sherlock’s hand start to wander, coming from his sides to stroke at her collarbone, dipping in the hollow between her scapula and clavicle. And they’re kissing again, rough but gentle, dirty but sweet, hot and fierce, all together lovely, and gods, _how can he still be a virgin_? His tongue replaces the hand at her collarbone, and for a moment, her eyes roll back into her head. _He’s just got to be good at everything._

Irene nearly rips his button-up shirt off, half-surprised that it’s still on, and the purple fabric is tossed aside carelessly on the adjoining couch. With a glance at his tightening trousers and tenting crotch, she licks her lips almost carnally. She’ll settle for an act of fellatio, if not something more. A hand comes to claw at his trouser button, but he bats her fingers away impatiently, doing the job of unfastening himself. He’s the one who puts on a show this time, inching the zip down ever-so-slowly until Irene has to tamp down on her urge to just tug them all the way down. Italian leather shoes are toed off, black socks are rolled into neat little balls, pressed trousers are cast aside, and then he’s left only in his pants. He’s starting to look a bit nervous again, no longer the confident man he was caught in the heat of the moment. Sherlock tries almost to smile, though it looks more like a pained grimace. Irene pities him, suddenly out of his realm as he realizes what he’s very nearly done, and steps closer, caressing his cheek and looking up at him in reassurance. Completely naked, though not surprisingly so, she reaches up on the tips of her toes to place a soft peck on his nose. He relaxes a fraction. Sherlock Holmes doesn’t seem like the man she thought he was. Not coolly detached, not unemotional, not gay. _The world never ceases to amaze_.

In one motion, her fingers hook underneath the elastic waistband of his silk pants, and he gives a sharp little intake of breath. His eyes flutter shut and Irene pulls down the thin fabric down and around his thighs until his cock bobs into view. The confidence is back, and Sherlock shucks the pants off quickly, and gasps again as he is suddenly pushed backwards, falling onto the couch. His back is pressed against the couch and he’s rock hard and Irene almost salivates when faced with his sizable manhood. It’s beautiful, sticking straight out against a mass of unruly, little black curls that start from a dusting of hair curling around his navel. Irene grabs him roughly by the base of his prick, and his eyes snap open wide in surprise when she takes the tip of him into the warmth of her mouth. He moans, a low note caught in the back of his throat that makes her wet. She notes his ever-changing eye colour again, the navy blue of a classic Union Jack, slowly growing darker with desire as her talented tongue traces a thick vein running down the side, and she feels his heavy flesh pulsing a bit around her lips. She presses a kiss to the crown, and licks and sucks her way to the base. Irene swallows him down, the head of his cock rubbing against the back of her throat, and she fights her gag reflex. He’s on the edge, she can tell, his hands are twisted in her hair, threatening to pull out a few strands if she goes any farther. It’s been long since anyone has touched him like this, eight months, if he has been faithful to John. And of course he has. So he is sensitive to any touch, heat flaring up at the barest whisper of skin-on-skin. So she pulls away, ignoring the quietly stifled whine of protest coming from Sherlock.

_The black queen decides next._

He’s sitting there with his head tossed back, gaping at her while she picks the best move. Throwing ideas to the wind, she reaches behind herself to unclasp her lacy black bra. Her breasts are free and they bounce as she practically jumps him, pushing his cock against the cleft of her arse. They rut against each other like in some sort of heat, completely transfixed in the moment. Irene’s tongue laps at his sternum, finding the space between his pecs slightly salty, which is sort of arousing. His teeth find a rosy nipple, and he bites down gently. It turns her on way more than it should. What is this noise that comes out of her mouth? _A growl?_

She captures his mouth in a kiss, hot and wet and messy. But it is perfectly choreographed, no teeth clacking together, nothing. _No bruises for the clients unless they want them._ A better one this time, gentle lips with a sensual slide of tongues, a languid rhythm as she moves against him, rubbing at his aching prick with every motion. It’s not enough and so she goes back, taking him in her mouth again. Swirling her tongue around the tip, and sucking until she can see his toes curling. Sherlock tries to stutter out a warning as his forest green irises widen, and he comes with a gasp, his back arching. He bucks into her mouth, filling it with his warm, gritty seed. Irene swallows it all down and surfaces for a kiss, but is surprised when an inquiring tongue pokes at the lips, licking away the remains of his salty semen around her mouth.. He kisses her again, and she can tell that he has the curious look on his face. He’s kissing, tasting his own essence, on another woman’s lips. She sighs into him suddenly, melding his body with his own. Their combined weight, unevenly distributed, somehow overbalances the sofa, tipping backwards and sending them tumbling onto the floor. But Sherlock has cradled her in his arms, making sure that her head doesn’t hit the ground. _Ever the perfect gentleman_. “Sorry,” she whispers sadly, but the spell is broken.  
He tries to get up, lifting her up easily and setting her down on the sofa again. No sign of embarrassment, nothing acknowledging the nudity. “Alright?” Sherlock asks.  
She surprises herself with how much she wants this. But she can see he doesn’t. He just got caught up in the moment. Irene is afraid to say it, but; “Yes, I’m alright. Fine. And you?”

There’s a slight chill in the air; but is it from the sudden drop in temperature after being pressed so long against a warm body, or this sudden, stilted politeness that they’ve adapted?

“Fine. More than fine, actually.” He looks hesitant to say anymore, but the words come out before he can stop. “Thank you. For this. It’s just...I can’t, I’m so sorry, I-I...” And he says the words that she predicted. **Well, I’d never want to see you unhappy.** “I got caught up. I hope you can forgive me... It has been long a long time, and no one knows that I am alive except for _brother dearest_.” Sherlock sneers the world, but then his voice softens. “And Molly, I suppose. Well, John might... never know that I love him. So I needed someone. You. I chose you. But I need you to be...just a friend, for now.”  
Those words pain her more than she knows why. Irene knows that he loves John, has seen it ever since she met the both of them, even foretold it before John loved Sherlock back. She needs someone too. But dominatrixes rarely have friends. **Should’ve known you’d bring me heartache, almost lovers always do.**  
Irene looks up at him, those achingly beautiful robin’s egg blue eyes. She feels the sting of tears behind her eyelids as she blinks. He looks sad, worried even, as he wipes away the single tear that tracks down her cheek. “Don’t cry,” he breathes out, so quiet she thinks she imagines it. This is the second time she has ever cried. The first was the time he told her she loved him. _And what a truth that was._

“I-I...I can try, I can try, Sherlock, to be friends.” she replies, his name rolling off her tongue easily. “But don’t you forget me. Don’t you ever forget me, not even for a second.” Irene tells him fiercely, even as another tear escapes out of the corner of her eye. “I could help you, you know. To take down his web. Moriarty’s people.”  
“No.” he answers, and its bluntness cuts her to the core. “How can I trust you? You helped him, a long time ago...and anyways, this is something I have to do myself. I have to prove it to myself. I might get killed, but it will be worth it if John can stay alive.” Sherlock’s visage is a stoic mask, though those eyes are a bit glossed-over and watery-looking to her.  
“Alright.” She leaves it at this, and then she feels guilty for showing any emotion at all. This...whatever this was, this lust, this love, then this crying? Sherlock has unraveled her very quickly this evening.

“I’ll always remember this, how could I forget? And how could anyone ever forget you? Don’t worry about that.” He laughs softly, and Irene tries to smile back at, albeit half-heartedly. When did they switch roles? When he came here tonight, he was the broken one. And now it’s her heart that’s shattered.  
Sherlock gives her a chaste kiss, smiling the whole time in that charming way of his. **And when you left you kissed my lips, you told me you would never ever forget these images.**  
“I should go, I’ve got some snipers to track. Don’t forget about me either. Goodbye, Irene.” It is the first time he has said her name this whole evening, and he is already leaving. How could she forget him? Even if she wanted to, she wouldn’t be able to. Sherlock grabs his long coat, slinging it over his shoulders and looping the navy scarf around his neck.

“Goodbye, darling,” Irene calls after him, watching as he turns towards her again. “Give John my best.”

After the door shuts behind him, Irene buries her head in her hands and cries, her salty tears dripping through her fingers onto the carpet.

_Goodbye, my almost lover._


End file.
